Adams is perhaps better known as an award-winning writer of westerns, but this is one of two or three crime/suspense novels he’s written as well. It’s solidly in the small area of the field once very popular — the story of a good man gone bad, tempted too far by a weakness of the flesh and the overpowering proximity of the sensuous evil of an all-too-willing woman.

If this a tale no longer seen very often, Gold Medal is probably at fault, for they surely wore out their presses on this particular sub-genre of eroticism during their first ten years in business (pointing out as I say this that practitioners of the form include such noted authors as Charles Williams and John D. MacDonald).

This one takes place in and around a shabby motel on Route 66, at a time before the interstate system of highways made us a nation of Holiday Inners. Creston, Oklahoma — a town a smart guy simply aches to get out of, and Joe Hooper is pining away for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to come knocking. Beth is the local girl everyone assumes he will marry some day. It is taken for granted, a pinpoint of accuracy showing how life goes on in a small town.

The wife of the safe-cracker staying overnight in Joe’s motel, in the room next door, is named Paula. Naturally he cuts himself in on their plans. Murder is not, however, originally on the agenda. It’s hard to to say how stupid men can be over women, yet granting a bit of leeway, I suppose they can make messes of their lives as easily as this.

I’ve read both and the Gant, and while they are largely up to Adams standard as a good writer there is nothing special that separates them from the rather crowded field of losers losing badly farmed by so many better Gold Medal books.

They are good reads, and for someone not deeply read in this sub genre probably better reads than they were for me, but Adams is not a master of this sub genre and I’ve have seen it better done even by Orrie Hitt.

They aren’t bad books, they just aren’t particularly good although in this one I enjoyed the setting since I only lived a few blocks from Route 66 in OKC for a while.

That’s pretty much how you should feel, and not untrue of the genre as a whole. Hitt wrote in paperback prose though, and his take on this genre was more authentic than Adams.

Adams isn’t as strong as a MacDonald, Fisher, Williams, Goodis, Rabe, or the other Gold Medal writers in this field, and he isn’t as invested as Hitt in the milieu. The three books mentioned feel half hearted, and whatever you say about Hitt, that was seldom true of him.

I much prefer Adams as a Western writer. He wrote some fine Westerns, none of his suspense novels are near as distinguished. They read to me as if he was trying to expand his markets and didn’t quite succeed.

I agree that Adams was a lot more successful as a writer of westerns. I think that I’m going to stick with my my younger self’s opinion on the merits of this book, though. Good, but not great, and yes, you’re right, not as good as the other Gold Medal writers you mention. If I get a chance, I’ll read this one again.